The Witches of St. Petersburg

³³ 17 August 1915, Znamenka Peterhof

The crying, the hand wringing, the hysterical weeping lasted for the days.

‘Grisha is no more!’ ‘Grisha is no more!’

The crowds chanted like a Greek chorus as they bore his semi-conscious body off a steamer in Tyumen. The Tsarina was prostrate with grief, unable to get out of bed, calling for all the elixirs Dr Badmaev had in his little leather bag; she was more upset on the attempt on Grisha’s life than the assassination of Arch- duke Franz Ferdinand and the declaration of war on Serbia, Russia’s ally, by Austria-Hungary a month later. The Tsar was sleepless with anxiety; if the mystic died who would help calm Alix’s nerves and her painful heart? He was exhausted by the hysterics; he’d never prayed so forcefully for another man’s life.

Meanwhile, the rest of the court held its breath. When could they celebrate?

For the first few days, his life was in the balance. The noseless whore, ravaged by syphilis, Khionia Guseva, who yelled, ‘I have killed the Antichrist!’ as she dug the knife into his belly – had managed to slice through his stomach so deeply his entrails had fallen out. The doctor stitched his gut back together – as well as his soul, apparently – on the dining-room table by candlelight. But the pain and the agony was so profound that the icon, the Virgin of Kazan, hanging in the corner of Rasputin’s house in Pokrovskoye, was said to have wept tears of sympathy.

But he survived. He survived well enough that by the fourth day of his ordeal he was photographed sitting up in bed, looking sad, clutching his chest as he always did, exuding tremendous piety and religious fervour, all the while declaring that any nurses on the ward with him should be relieved of their corsets. It was, thus, a little easier for him to put his hand up their skirts.

Militza was furious; instead of freeing Russia from the clutches of this monster, she’d only succeeded in creating some sort of living saint. Albeit a saint with a newfound fondness for opium, to dull the pain of his assault, but a saint all the same, whose Lazarus-like recovery from a whore’s knifing made him more remarkable than ever. The fact that the whore was an ex-lover of his was rarely, if at all, mentioned.

His return to St Petersburg – now more patriotically named Petrograd – was a return to his old ways. Except, this time with impunity. The queues outside 64 Gorokhovaya laced all the way down the street, the moaning from the back-room divan was constant, the ten o’clock club was taken over by daily 10 a.m. telephone calls from Tsarskoye Selo on his new telephone – Petrograd 64646 (the number of sixes was not lost on Militza) – and the Okhrana were no longer following him around as he walked the streets of Petrograd but chauffeuring him in his new private car.

With Nicholas away at the front, Rasputin’s visits to see Alix, Anna and the children became as regular as his visits to banya and the nearby brothel. By now, dislike for the man had spread through every corner of the empire and even previously loyal acquaintances of the imperial family and indeed other members of the imperial family, could no longer hold their tongue. The Dowager Empress declared dramatically that unless Rasputin was removed from the court, she would move to Kiev… She moved to Kiev. Xenia and Sandro were equally vociferous in their distaste; they too were ignored.

And still Stana would not change her position. She simply refused to talk about the man. She even purchased one of the ‘Rasputin is Not Discussed Here’ signs on sale in the market around Nevsky and placed it very firmly on her mantelpiece in the salon. For many, this was a standing joke in the fine sitting rooms of Petrograd, but for her it was a little different. Her position was untenable. With Nikolasha as Commander-in-Chief of the army and Rasputin constantly speaking out against the war, theirs were two paths that would never meet.

By the spring of 1915, nearly four million Russians had been killed, wounded or captured. The situation on the front was becoming increasingly desperate. There was talk of a second round of conscripts (commandeering all twenty-one to forty-three-year olds). There was panic in the countryside: these men could not go to fight! Who would sow and bring in the next harvest? Who would stop the rest of Russia from starving? There had not been a call-up of the second round since Napoleon’s invasion in 1812.

In Petrograd itself the atmosphere was febrile and frightening. Rumour was rife and revolution was in the air; there were meetings and gatherings and speeches – the peasants had had enough and the government and the imperial family were becoming a laughing stock, tellingly ruled by The Cock. All conversation began and ended with the name Rasputin. As did all verse.

‘Enough!’ declared Militza, taking hold of the piece of paper. ‘Where did you get that?’

‘They are all over the city,’ said Dr Badmaev. ‘You can’t move for stories or tales like this.’ He nodded out of the café window towards the street outside, where the pavements were bustling with soldiers. ‘I did warn you a long time ago. I said I didn’t like him and now he is not just unlikeable, he is dangerous.’

‘You’re talking to me as if it is my fault.’

‘Well, isn’t it?’ His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful what you wish for, I think that is the saying.’

‘I didn’t wish for anything,’ replied Militza indignantly.

‘No?’ he asked. ‘I seem to remember a conversation we had once.’

‘I am sure I can’t recall it.’

‘There is something very unseemly about him, as if he was indeed manifested, or is perhaps a walk-in, when a maleficent soul floats around until he finds a benign host – and what could be a more benign host than a simple peasant from Siberia?’

‘I am well aware of what a walk-in is,’ said Militza. ‘I have seen many in my time.’

‘Many?’ Badmaev looked puzzled. ‘I have seen them rarely – and they always appear to be reasonable at first, but slowly the maleficent soul takes over. Like a cancer it eats away at the weaker, benign soul until the other withers, so that there are only flickers of the previous little sparks that die over time, never to be seen again. I have only seen them a few times over my travels. Perhaps they are more usual in Montenegro?’

‘Perhaps,’ nodded Militza.

She was behaving childishly, she knew it, but there was something about Badmaev’s tone that worried her, something about the way he looked at her that chilled her to the bone. It was similar to the look the drunk Prince Yusupov had given her. If he also blamed her for Rasputin’s rise from a Siberian backwater to the foot of the throne itself, it was only a matter of time before others followed. Rasputin would be her legacy. It was enough to make her wish she had never been born.

She only had one more card left to play. Stana.

If she could persuade her sister to join forces with her. If they could unite for one last time, then together they stood a chance of defeating him. Together, their strength, coupled with the icon of St John the Baptist, might well be enough to end this. For one thing was certain, after the stabbing and his resurrection in Siberia, she was not capable of ridding Russia of him all on her own.

So, with Peter away in Moscow, she invited them both for dinner at Znamenka. It was her last throw of the dice. Little did she know how effective it would be.

As she lit the candles in the dining room that night, her hand shook with nerves. She had not seen Grisha in over a year, not since the attempt on his life and was more than a little anxious lest he knew it had been her doing. Had he heard her spell on the wind? Did he know how she really felt? The rumours, the testimonies to his ‘supernatural forces’ were so rife; his ability to read thoughts, see souls and raise the dead was no longer questioned. If you were to lure the Devil to your chamber, she thought, with the intent of doing him harm, surely the Devil would know? She glanced over at the shelf next to the fireplace, there she could see the glint of the small icon frame of St John the Baptist, hidden behind some books. She prayed it would keep her safe.

‘Philippe. Maître. Friend,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I need you now.’

Stana arrived, fresh from tea and a game of bezique with the Grand Duchess Vladimir, who despite the awfulness of the war was still trying to enjoy her summer as best she could, preferring to stay out of the city as much as possible.

‘She says she wants to keep away from the awful proletariat,’ laughed Stana as she sipped her champagne. ‘I am not really sure she knows what the word actually means! But the word is a la mode and she loves to discuss things a la mode, while she happily spends a lifetime’s wages on a little bibelot from Cartier!’ She stopped and noticed the table was laid for three, not the two as she was expecting. ‘Are we to be joined?’ she asked. ‘Roman? Marina? Nadejda?’

‘Grisha,’ came Militza’s explosive reply.

‘Grisha!’ Stana put her glass down as her cheeks blanched white. ‘Well, I am afraid I shall have to leave, I would rather die than spend a second in that man’s company.’

‘Please don’t go!’

There was something about Militza’s tone that stopped Stana in her tracks. For the first time ever in her life she detected a note of vulnerability in her sister’s voice.

‘Why?’

‘Because we need to change the course of events,’ she whispered, ‘and I need your help to do that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s our fault he is here. We asked for him, we called upon the Four Winds and we created a monster and now…’

‘And now what?’

‘… We must kill him.’

‘No, I will not,’ said Stana adamantly. ‘I have told you before, I do not want his blood on my hands.’

‘If not us, then who? When did you last see him?’ asked Militza.

‘I don’t know. I try not to think about him. Nikolasha won’t have him in the house; Rasputin offered to come and see the troops the other day at Stavka, saying his arrival might boost morale, but Nikolasha said he’d see him hang if he came anywhere near the Front.’

‘You have no idea how awful he has become?’

‘I hear… I hear stories…’

‘Then you know he is now more powerful than ever. And with Nicky at the Front, he’s been left to run riot. Alix does what he says. Especially after he saved Anna Vyrubova’s life after that appalling train crash, he can do no wrong. Everyone thinks it’s Badmaev’s drugs that are sending the Tsarina mad, but it is him. It is just her and him. In charge. With Nicky apparently too stoned or incapacitated to care. He is atrophied by indecision and the war and so the other two try to rule. It is a disaster. He’s unstoppable. Some members of the court offered him money, 200,000 roubles plus a house, a monthly allowance and bodyguards, if he’d go back to Siberia, never to be seen again – and do you know what he said?’ Stana slowly shook her head. ‘“You think Mama and Papa will allow that? I don’t need money; any old merchant will give me what I need to hand out to the poor and needy.”’

‘What a charlatan,’ said Stana quietly. ‘His house is crammed with gold and precious things.’

‘I know!’ nodded Militza. ‘And it will only get worse. I need you to see him. I need you to see him – it – in the flesh. I need you to understand the gravity of the situation. Please, please stay.’

Stana nodded and slowly sat back down in silence. She remembered the kiss and how her sister had always stood by her; she remembered the sacrifices, the sordid sacrifices Militza had made for her and she realized it was time she did something in return. It was time to pay back.

‘Ha ha ha!’ A weird chortling noise came from outside the room. The door opened and in walked Rasputin, his hair dramatically unkempt. His gait was lurching and his gaze swivelled around the room; it was as if he’d been exhumed or pulled out of a party by his legs. ‘Two… little… witches… in… one… room!’ he sang, trotting around on the spot, holding up the edges of his loose black kaftan. ‘Two little witches in one room.’ He leered at the sisters, his smile wolfish as he danced towards them. ‘Two little witches! One!’ He pointed at Stana. ‘Two!’ He jabbed his finger at Militza. ‘In one room!’ He laughed loudly, throwing his blackened mouth back in the air, before collapsing with a loud sigh on to the divan closest to the unlit fire. ‘It’s cold!’ he declared loudly.

‘Grisha, it is August, not even the Tsarina has a fire in August,’ replied Militza.

‘Grisha, how delightful to see you,’ began Stana, in a singsong voice she reserved for dull society parties or other people’s children. ‘How are you?’

‘How am I?’ he asked, as he rolled around on the divan, attempting to sit up a little straighter. He was clearly in a lot of pain. ‘Death is near me, she is crawling towards me on her hands and knees like a whore.’ He gestured loosely towards the door. ‘And when I die, what no one knows is that Russia will perish along with me.’ He inhaled and belched loudly. ‘The country will be tormented, it will tear itself apart, limb from limb and the river Neva will flow with the blood of Grand Dukes!’

Stana looked across at Militza; how much had the man drunk to reach this level of morbidity?

He continued on until they sat down for dinner, bemoaning his fate and the fact that both his and Russia’s demise were inextricably linked. He sat at the head of the table and monopolized bottle after bottle of his favourite Madeira. Rasputin would normally not have eaten any of the meat on offer, but that night, he couldn’t avail himself of enough flesh; he gnawed at the bones of his partridge and sliced slither after slither off the haunch of venison placed next to him. And all the while he talked about his approaching death. They, the people, were all lining up to kill to him, women with guns in their dresses, young men with knives in their breeches – it was not hard to imagine a revolutionary hurling a bomb through his window at any minute.

‘And then there’s poison!’ he said, his knife raised in the air. ‘But I have protected myself against that.’

‘How does anyone protect themselves from poisoning?’ asked Stana, still using the singsong voice.

‘Taking little drops at a time,’ he said, waving his knife from side to side.

‘Mithridatization,’ said Militza.

‘Eat apple pips,’ he added. ‘Stones of peaches and apricots. All day, every day. Ground up in water. Cyanide can’t touch me!’ He coughed. ‘But it is dangerous out there – and now I no longer have the icon.’

‘The icon?’ asked Militza, suddenly feeling nervous.

‘The one you kindly gave.’ He smiled briefly.

‘St John the Baptist?’

‘I lost it long ago,’ he sighed, wearily, slumping a little at the table. ‘Long, long ago…’

‘You lost it?’ Militza feigned surprise well.

‘I don’t know where or when. I was travelling and I mislaid it. I try and see it in my mind, picture it hiding in the long grass by the side of the road. How I feel its loss greatly. How I need it now. Without it, I shall surely die. For death is near me, she crawls towards me…’

‘Yes, yes,’ smiled Militza. ‘Enough!’

He paused, his eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe it was stolen from me?’ He looked wildly around the room.

‘Surely not!’ exclaimed Stana.

‘I have trophy hunters in my house all the time; they steal the hair off my head and the nails off my toes as I sleep.’ He laughed wryly. ‘And now She’s given me bodyguards because She fears for my safety.’

There was no need to ask who She was.

‘She needs me, you see.’ His face changed to one of mocking sympathy. ‘She ne-e-e-e-ds me!’ He laughed. ‘She needs her Friend. Our Friend.’ He looked down the table at the two sisters. ‘I’m the only one she’s got!’ He laughed.

‘How about Anna and Lily?’ enquired Stana.

‘Anna? That old cripple! I am worth a thousand of her,’ he replied, digging his fork into his venison and eating another slice. ‘No one can satisfy her like I can!’ He laughed again.

‘I am not sure I understand you,’ said Stana.

‘You’re a woman of the world, little witch!’ he replied. ‘But I am a man of God. And the poor woman has little left but her faith.’

‘We should all have faith,’ confirmed Stana.

‘I am living a quiet life,’ he declared. ‘I visit the Little Mother and the Kazan and St Isaac’s Cathedrals each day, that is all.’

And the Makaev wine shop on 23 Nevsky, thought Militza, and the Villa Rhode and the Yacht Club and the banya up the road from Gorokhovaya and Madame Sonya’s whorehouse not far from the Fontanka. He was a man of God with an exemplary record.

‘But I feel the hand of God above me,’ he continued.

‘His hand is above us all,’ said Militza.

‘No.’ He turned to stare at her, his pale eyes suddenly finding focus. ‘You will live, my little witch. You will escape. You will breathe the fresh air of freedom. But God will come to gather me!’

He stared mournfully at his glass for a second, swilling its blood-red contents around. It was as if he could see nothing but misery, torment and writhing pain within the spinning liquid.

‘But one must not be sad!’ he said suddenly.

‘Indeed not,’ agreed Militza.

‘We should have a party! Let’s invite some gypsies.’ He looked around the room as if expecting it to be full of people. ‘We need music! Parties always need music. Do you have a gramophone?’

The footmen were called; a gramophone was found as well as some records and the sisters watched as Rasputin started to dance. They knew of the all-night parties that he hosted in his apartment, where the telephone was always ringing, the door was always open and the wine never ran out. Munia once told Militza about a party where everyone had stayed over because they were all too drunk to leave, only for two husbands to arrive the next morning, each with a revolver, on the hunt for their wives. The secret police delayed the husbands long enough for the wives to dress and disappear down the back stairs, but Munia had been horrified and said she would never attend one of his parties again.

Rasputin moved slowly; his stomach was still clearly giving him some pain, but the more he drank, the less he cared. He held his arms outstretched and waved his hips from side to side, swaying along with the music.

‘Oh this!’ he announced, closing his eyes, listening to the soaring sound of the violins. ‘This reminds me of Siberia. The space. The skies. And the plump peasant girls!’ He laughed again, as if he were transported back there. ‘Dance with me!’ he demanded, looking from one sister to the other.?‘Dance!’

‘No thank you,’ smiled Militza, taking a sip of her champagne.

‘You!’ He pointed at Stana. Stana shook her head. ‘I am the most powerful man in Russia and I command you to dance.’

‘Really, Grisha, no,’ said Stana.

‘I COMMAND it!’ he shouted.

‘Thank you, but no,’ said Stana.

‘Dance!’ he spat. ‘I have people queuing down the street wanting to give me money, presents, paintings, carpets for five minutes with me and you, you won’t dance with me when I command it!’

‘Just dance with him,’ hissed Militza.

Stana reluctantly rose from the divan. It was a sultry night and the air hung close; Rasputin smelt high and acrid with old sweat. He grabbed her and pulled her towards him as he rocked her from side to side. Stana’s heart was beating fast. She was desperate to pull away from him but his grip was firm, almost as firm as his shaft that she could feel through the folds of her dress.

‘Oh Stana, Stana, Stana,’ he whispered in her ear, his spittle spraying the side of her neck as he spoke. ‘You’ve come to me at last. All those years, all those years I have watched, all those years I have longed for you…’ He pulled her tighter towards him. ‘I knew you’d come in the end. Women can’t resist power, my power; the power of Grisha, they bounce up and down on it like whores at an orgy. Come closer, my little whore…’

‘That’s it!’ declared Stana, pushing him so hard in the chest that he stumbled back a step. ‘I am leaving. Goodnight, sister!’ Grabbing her fan and her wrap, she ran out of the room and down the front stairs, bursting through the front door and out into the evening air. She inhaled deeply, looking up at the pale blue sky and the stars. What an odious creature that man was! Truly he was unbearable.

She glanced around the drive. Her car was on the other side of the fountain. She stumbled across past Rasputin’s car that was waiting, complete with Okhrana driver snoozing at the wheel. Stana opened her car door and slipped into the back seat. Where was her driver?

‘You should be a little nicer to me,’ came a voice right next to her in the shadows.

Stana screamed! He covered her mouth with his rough, gnarled hand. How did he get there? How did he leave the palace quicker than her? He truly was the Devil himself! ‘Shhhhh,’ he hissed in her ear as he heaved himself on top of her. ‘I don’t know who you think you are, little witch, but I control armies, I control governments and I control the imperial family. You have not been nice to Grisha and so Grisha won’t be nice to you.’

‘I am a married woman!’ spat Stana. ‘Leave me alone. I love my husband.’

‘Your husband?’ He stared. ‘You wouldn’t have that husband if it weren’t for me. And what I have given I can also take away.’

‘No you can’t. He’s much more powerful than you, he’s head of the army.’

‘No one is more powerful than Grisha.’

‘What utter rubbish, I am not afraid of you. I have never been afraid of you!’

‘Silly girl.’ He smiled. ‘I shall have him sent to the Caucasus!’

He leant forward and forced his hard tongue in her mouth. He worked his way deep down in her throat, jabbing and rolling it around, making sure he probed every corner and then he licked her face, her cheek and her lips as he slowly pushed himself off her. He opened the car door and slammed it, without another word. Stana was left, her clothes crumpled, her face covered in saliva, rigid with indignation and fury. Her driver suddenly got into the car, and along with him came a trail of cigarette smoke.

‘Sorry, Grand Duchess, I didn’t see you leave the palace,’ he apologized. ‘Where to?’

‘Home,’ she said quietly.

It took less than thirty-six hours for Nikolasha to learn he was to be relieved of his duties as Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Forces. He was to be replaced by the Tsar himself. He and his wife were told to leave the city, to move south. To the Caucasus.